


Springtime

by anothershower



Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anothershower/pseuds/anothershower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lip had done his best to stomp down the slow flush of jealousy every time he'd seen his brother sprawled out on the living room floor with Mandy, or pressed up against each other from shoulder to hip in Ian's narrow bed, or just shoving each other around for the hell of it, laughing as they walked down the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Springtime

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a lovestory to my glorious city, Chicago, and then turned into a story about my Shameless OT3. Whatever, I'm not going to apologize. 
> 
> Also, I've been told this is vaguely incest-y, but it was neither intentional nor is it particularly explicit.

Early spring in Chicago is hideous. 

Most of the weather in Chicago is hideous, to be fair, ranging from summer's too fucking hot to winter's deathly chill. People die just from the temperature, Lip knows, he's heard it on the news Debbie inflicts on everyone in the living room when she's won the television controller from Carl. And spring might not kill, but it's still the ugliest time of year. 

The snowmelt is muddying up already filthy streets, and in a month rain might actually do a job of clearing away salt stains and grime, but for now the water has the sheen of oil and it gives anything under a knee height a veneer of filth. 

Or not a veneer, maybe; this _is_ the southside. The very foundation is pretty much make of shit bricks. 

The weather may be warming slowly, but Lip is still sporting boots that are probably half a size too small (he considered stealing Ian's last night, but isn't really ready to chance having his brother hunt him down and steal them back -- Lip has made the walk home barefoot before, but the puddles are only a few degrees better than snow). Even those aren't enough to save the hem of his jeans, sopping wet and chilling his ankles after just the few blocks between Karen's house and his. 

Kicking out, a half-decayed leaf flicks from the toe of his left shoe and lands disappointingly close to Frank's face, looking just as pathetic and dead as the man Lip had been targeting. Lip steps over the prone body and tries the knob, viciously satisfied that it's been locked; he wonders if he has Ian or Fiona to thank for sparing them the mess their patriarch might have made in the kitchen. 

It's easier to knock than try to jimmy a window, and Lip's glad he spared himself the trouble when the door opens half a minute later. Mandy grins at him from behind stringy hair and smeared makeup, and Lip knows he's going to go to sleep tonight and his pillow is going to smell distractingly of her cheap (but not unpleasant) scent. It won't be the first time she's taken claim to his vacant bed. 

"You're home late, dear," she drawls, and if it weren't for her thick sweater Lip knows he'd be getting a lovely view of her artfully pushed out chest. A shame, really, considering how little cleavage he's been able to appreciate since fall. 

Fucking weather. 

"Don't pretend like you waited up for me. I'm sure my brother kept you in good company." Lip brushes past, ignoring the considering glance he gets when his hand makes half a second's contact with her hip. It's not like he doesn't flirt with anyone, ever, he just doesn't usually bother with his brother's sort-of-girlfriend. "Right, Ian?" 

His brother is behind the stove for once, cheerfully scrambling eggs at ass o'clock in the morning. Cadet, indeed, Lip thinks, resentful of the bright-eyed clarity in Ian's gaze as he edges around Liam's chair. He's leaving a path of muddy footprints on the floor and fuck, he hopes Fiona stays in whatever comatose state she's in long enough for someone to smear the mess around enough that it's unrecognizable as his bootprints. Mandy does half the work for him, hot on his heels as she is. 

"Boring. Loser passed out at, like, one, left me to finish up Prince of Persia on my own. We missed you." Mandy trails a finger down his arm as she wanders past into the living room, and Ian gives Lip a significant look as he scrapes eggs onto plates. Lip rolls his eyes, unwilling to play into the flirting. This is what he gets for trying to be friendly. 

And that's all it had been, these past few weeks. _Friendly_. He and Ian had been nearly inseparable for years, working, scamming, and partying as a team. Lip had done his best to stomp down the slow flush of jealousy every time he'd seen his brother sprawled out on the living room floor with Mandy, or pressed up against each other from shoulder to hip in Ian's narrow bed, or just shoving each other around for the hell of it, laughing as they walked down the street. It had been him in her place just a few years ago, but he can't quite remember when it has stopped, when the position of best friend had been opened. He fucked up somewhere. 

It was probably too late, but Lip had been trying to get himself to fit in their little twosome. Friendly-like, right, ignoring Mandy's proprietary looks or Ian's nervousness when he'd drop down on the couch behind them, or rest for a few minutes against the edge of the bed, or tag along to whatever stupid outing Mandy had roped Ian into taking her to. It wasn't really a hardship, sharing his brother, not when Mandy was so goddamn _genuine_ about liking him. Ian deserved that, and Lip wanted him to have someone to take out in public, to call significant other who wasn't a fucking married man. He felt a little homophobic at the thought, but it wasn't that he wanted Ian to start fucking girls; he just wanted him to pick better dicks to suck, or whatever. 

Ian hands Lip a plate with a little mound of eggs and cubed ham piled atop a piece of toast artfully displayed, and Lip feels a little bad for the discomforted flush on Ian's face; he'd been staring, and now he was obviously taking food intended for someone else. "She wouldn't shut up about you," Ian says, turning back to the stove with a sardonic little smile. "Not even long enough to moon over Jake Gyllanhall, which was the entire fucking point of the movie." 

Lip rolls his eyes, folds the toast in half and takes a bite of the soggy sandwich. "Not sorry I missed it, then," he says, spraying crumbs and making a mess of the plate. Ian laughs, but it's nervous, and Lip feels a little like the bite of food he swallowed has turned to lead, because Ian doesn't get nervous about stupid shit, usually. 

"Yeah, well, I just wanted to -- to warn you, I guess." Ian is making another plate of food, eyes and hands steady as he concentrated on the simple mechanics of preparing breakfast. Lip takes another slow bite of his sandwich, curious and dreadful in equal measures. Why the fuck did Ian think Lip needed to be warned off his sham girlfriend? 

He swallows when nothing more is forthcoming, and then props himself up against the kitchen counter next to Ian, who is staring with such intent at the plate of eggs, ham and toast that it might very well have taken on religious significance. "Yeah, look, I'm not trying to steal her. Not a massive asshole, am I? I've got Karen for that shit, and -" 

"No," Ian cuts him off, turns that gaze on Lip, and it's a weird rush to have that sort of intensity directed at him. "I want you to. She wants you to. It'd be... it'd be good." 

And that's the sort of thing Lip doesn't expect to hear, not over shitty breakfast on a Sunday morning at five-fifteen. "Are you fucking high?" 

"Fuck you," Ian says, defensive, embarrassment ruining his usually ridged posture. "And be quiet, okay." They pause, both their breathing slightly elevated and loud in the quiet of the kitchen, but they can hear the tv going just a room over, and when Lip peeks his head around the doorway Mandy is sprawled out over the couch, her attention torn between whatever is on and an open bottle of nailpolish. 

Lip relaxes a little, and then laughs, because this is either a really terrible joke or a kinky fucking nightmare, but either way is not at all something he's going to take seriously. 

"Right, no, we are not having this conversation." Ian looks like he's going to object, so Lip reaches over and presses his palm over his brother's mouth to shut him up. It works, which is good, but also reminds him of the times when he tried this before and got a bite in reply. He's wary, but holds it there as he continues. "There are levels of fucked up I simply do not do, and I'm not going to be your girlfriend's living dildo, alright?" 

He pulls away, takes his plate and ignores the way Ian's eyes follow him up the stairs.

_____________________________________

Lip figures that would be it, conversation over, and they'd carry on in normal Gallagher fashion by not bringing it up, ever again. The first few days are a little stilted, but Mandy seems to mow over any residual awkwardness with the surprising effective method of teasing them both relentlessly. It becomes survival, teaming up with his brother when she comes around.

So it's done, they're fine, and Lip isn't fucking Ian's girlfriend. 

Until he sort of does. 

They're both drunk, which isn't an excuse, not when they've been far more drunk before, pretty much consistently since they hit their teens, but it's certainly worth mentioning. It's tequila, mostly, the good shit that goes down with a pleasant burn rather than a vicious one. Someone's turning twenty, or maybe it's thirty, Lip didn't know the guy, but in typical southside fashion it's loud enough to attract the whole neighborhood. 

Ian and Mandy haul the rusted metal framework of what might have once been a lounger from under the neighbors porch, and it's in decent enough shape to hold all their weight if they don't move too much. Lip's coat is padded and he's got his shitty jeans on, so it's without too much complaining that he lets Mandy curl up mostly on his lap and chest, leaving Ian to deal with her knockoff Ugg clad feet. 

It's sort of cold, sure, but the energy from the party seems to give off actual heat, or maybe it's just the tequila. Lip's hit that point in his drunkenness that his limbs feel overheavy and tingle, vaguely. It doesn't really matter that Mandy's buried her face in his neck or tucked a narrow knee between his legs, a pleasant weight against his dick. 

Lip is surprised when Mandy's tongue touches, very briefly, the cut of his jaw. He shouldn't be, really, because Ian is an asshole but he did fucking warn Lip. "Hey," he rumbles, but it's distracted, easy to dismiss. Mandy's legs spread a little, shifting her weight enough that his dick fills against the heat of her thigh. "People will --" 

Ian's hand comes down on Lip's ankle, as though soothing a nervous animal. "No one's looking. They're all making s'mores." He's partially right, since everyone seems distracted by the growing bonfire, but Lip can see there's more drinking going on than roasting marshmallows. 

Mandy's got a good angle now, grinding her cunt down against his leg with a slow, rolling pressure. Lip's hands hesitate, then settle on her ribcage. She's thin under her padded jacket, he notices, and Ian's still got his hand on Lip's ankle. Two simple facts, and it's weird how they seem to take such importance when all he really wants to do is yank Mandy's hideous purple tights off and press himself into the wet heat he can feel radiating through his jeans. 

"Jesus," he hisses, mouth wide open and breath just barely misting the air. Mandy makes a noise, a little frustrated grunt, and Ian laughs. It's not funny, really, because Lip knows that frustration, he's feeling it right now. He slides a hand down from her ribs to wriggle up her skirt, under her tights, to the wet folds of her labia. 

They're so fucking obvious, Mandy making a different sort of breathy noise as she shivers and shudders over Lip, and Ian still has his hand on Lip's ankle, like he's gonna go anywhere with two of his fingers buried in Mandy while he thumbs her clit viciously. It's just as fantastic as it is horrible, because there are all sorts of technicalities standing in the way of this being okay, and the biggest one is his brother who is _right fucking there_ , but it doesn't really matter when he's got a pussy in his hand and a mouth panting away in his ear. 

"You _dick_ ," Mandy says into his hair, and there's Ian laughing again, and Lip jerks his hips up helplessly as he feels his brother's (sham) girlfriend clench around his fingers as she comes all over his palm.


End file.
